Small Silences
by championrolodexer
Summary: A conversation in a tea room. Minor spoilers for 5.08.
For a moment, there is a small kind of silence which no-one fills. And then, just like that, the conversation starts up again (a different kind of conversation to the one that would surround tea and cake at Nonnatus House, with all its forgiving good humour, and words that don't, for the most part, have to be watched. And Patsy is struck, fleetingly, by how easy she now finds it to hold her own with a nun). But here, in the tea room, there's talk again, although there's no more mention of passports, or Paris, or the exotic Isle of Man.

It is a conversation, mostly, that moves around a landscape of places she's never seen, and a tableau of aunts, uncles and cousins whom she's heard of – but she's never really got a fix on the relationships of the various relations. But that's alright – she's content to nod, and smile, and laugh politely where she thinks she should. At other times in her life – when she's called out at three in the morning, or when she answers the telephone to the anxious voice of a first-time father – then she is expected to say things. On those occasions, professionalism requires her to fill the space of fear and anticipation with words, the kind of bright, soothing, encouraging words she has always been good at. But not now.

It is not that the moment is awkward, but more that the three of them need to put space between themselves and the ….conversation they've just had. That there needs to be some sort of space filled up, so that when Mrs Busby looks back on this meeting, or she's asked, tonight, at dinner with her sister and her sister's husband, what they talked about, she can say with honesty: the usual things - the weather; the family; the news. There'll be content to it, the safe comforting things that one would normally talk about in a tea room with your daughter and her particular friend.

That Patsy doesn't really know the context of the light little stories they're now hearing – that doesn't matter. There's one about a cousin (second? third?) getting engaged to a woman who is no better than she ought to be, and already has one broken engagement to her name. But perhaps the topic of marriage is something which makes them all feel a little queasy: she feels a hand rest nervously on her leg, just momentarily, until the conversation is safely steered towards something else. There's the music concert – a brass band – visiting at home; just the sort of band in which Mrs Busby's father once played. They're raising money for a new roof for the church, which wants repair before winter really sets in. She'll be back in time for the concert, on Tuesday evening. She just hopes her husband has remembered to purchase the tickets. It's at times like this she does regret not having a telephone line installed at home, so she might remind him of this and other little errands.

And then there are the usual visitor's complaints about the closeness of living in London; the darkness and the dinginess of its streets; the uncleanliness even of the parks (the parks!); that question of why it is that in the capital they can't keep a nice street where everywhere else in the country they seem to manage a bit of pride in their homes.

While they sit there, Patsy reflects on how much of this – come on now, give it the name it deserves – her _relationship_ with Delia has been conducted through silences.

The silence in the dim light of Delia's bedroom in the Nurses' Home, when conversation slowed. And the two of them were just sitting, side-by-side (her, as stiff as a board, her body still stiffer even than her carefully lacquered hair, still so unsure and so tense, even after a considerable intake of whisky). And, somewhere in the silence, Delia had reached out and taken her hand. And then with the other hand had traced the outline of her jaw. She felt giddy. It wasn't the alcohol catching up with her. Was she holding her breath?

Delia had asked – half-asked, hesitant – "you _do_ want this?". And that had been all the question there was; and even that was more of a question than was really needed, after so many months. And Patsy had found herself unable to say anything, to do anything, but nod. And Delia leant towards her – and all those months of panicked interior monologue (Does she…? Was that…? Could she…?) had melted away.

And, remembering that, Patsy smiles to herself – quickly catching the smile, before it turns outward into a smirk, and antagonises Mrs Busby. Because Delia could not be described by anyone who had known her for even five minutes as the "silent type". But that evening – that first evening – after the overwhelming everything that had passed between them, and Patsy had been obliged to return to her room, they'd said nothing. Well, almost nothing. Patsy hadn't: her heart had been too full; her chest had been too full; spilling over with something new. When Patsy paused at the door – partly reluctant to leave, partly listening for footsteps along the corridor – then Delia, all 5 foot 3 of her, bit her lip, and smiled at the same time. "I knew it, you know. I was only waiting for you to realise it too". Patsy would later ask her, why, if she knew it, she had wasted so bloody long waiting, and not doing something about it. Delia didn't have an answer for that one, actually.

And now, when they slip out of the tea room, and walk down the street, and wait for the bus, there's relief. And the strong swelling of triumph in her own chest. And gratitude – yes, gratitude – because what she saw in there was love, in its own form. Strange, that, because when they were waiting for her arrival, she'd thought of Mrs Busby as this sort of suffocating presence, suffocating to her own and Delia's happiness. The sort of woman who wouldn't give an inch; who meddled. The sort of woman who hated everything unfamiliar (London being very unfamiliar, and its inhabitants and their strange ways even more so).

But now she sees it – those two times when she's let her daughter go. The first time, to come back to London (to come back to _her_ ); and now, again, with a piece of paper and a strained sort of understanding. She handed it over reluctantly, but she still handed it over. It is more than Patsy hoped for.

On the bus, they sit on the top deck – empty at this odd time of the afternoon, when workers are still in work and shoppers are mostly done with their day's shopping.

"So there it is. In the bag". Delia makes a half-joke and pats her handbag. And then, more quietly, "thank you".

"Well, if I'm being entirely honest…It was more for my sake than yours"

"Oh, how so?"

"I'd look rather ridiculous wandering around Paris on my own."

"I suppose that means I'm obliged to come with you, then?"

"Yes – out of pity, if nothing else"

"Then I will come, both out of pity and out of something else."

"The _something else_ being?"

"I want to see if your French accent is quite as terrible as your Welsh one."

Patsy beams and ignores the insult. When they get back, it won't be right to smile – and neither of them will feel like it, when they turn their minds to what must happen over the next few days, and the mourning beyond that. But they have this moment, on the top deck of the bus. It is late in the year, promising soon to be winter, but the sun is still bright enough – one of those days when it shines so well that you can't tell whether it's spring or autumn. On her left, she feels Delia at her side, fully flush against her. And now she thinks about it again, maybe the warmth she feels on this top deck isn't coming from the sun - which is actually rather pale, rather watery, casting a feeble light on the afternoon - but the warmth of the body next to hers, radiating love, and closeness, and solidarity. Today, none of these things need to be said out loud to be real.

Patsy is next to the window, looking out, a hand in her own. They are travelling towards something, together, and this is like nothing in the world. And she remembers – what, 9, 10 months ago? – being on another bus, looking out of another window. And seeing Delia on the pavement, and feeling so like she could scream; and being so glad that the scouts were there; arguing, shouting, laughing, even retching, simply filling the bus with all their sounds. Because if she had to be there, looking out at the neon green and pink of the Christmas lights framing a Christmas shopping scene, she wanted the noise all around her to match the noise in her head.

But that was in another country, a long time ago. And just like that, she shrugs, and puts it out of her mind. Just like that.

* * *

 _A/N: Thank you for the kind reviews! I was in two minds about posting this story (wasn't quite sure if it was up to scratch), but I'm glad I did..._


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